The other day I visited the  Rescue Mission of Trenton, with the group, People & Stories, to talk about literature and life.  Diane, a volunteer organizer drove me there.  When we arrived we entered an unmarked steel door in the side of a cement block building and when the woman behind the glass saw us, she buzzed us through a second door.  The hall before us was interchangeable with a thousand other such institutions: florescent lighting, steel water fountain, cinder-block walls painted pale pink and yellow, tan lino on the floor.  Diane led me through a maze of  hallways smelling faintly of bleach, past poorly-lit rooms in which men and a few women lounged on uncomfortable-looking chairs or sat around folding tables; through a ramshackle courtyard in which  mission trucks were parked, past loading docks, and storage rooms full of broken furniture, pots and pans and stacks of plates. Finally we entered a somewhat cavernous room with wood paneling and linoleum tile, nine blue tables set up in a T-shape, and a large wooden cross hanging on the wall.